Summit, Utah, 2011 
St. Charles, Missouri, 2021
A decade ago from last Monday, I sat down and typed out my first real blog post as The Traveling Mandolin:
"Something I’ve learned in my time of unconventional life choices: whenever you do something crazy, you need at least one naysayer to spur you on. People fear things they don’t understand, such as hostels, Greyhound buses, and the idea of a young woman traveling by herself. My well-wishing friends assure me that mugging, kidnapping, murder and rape lie in wait just around the corner of every trip, and perhaps if I watched the news, I’d become paranoid as well. But in the meantime I don’t stare at the reel of horror zapping across the boob tube, and instead I travel. I meet people, I meet places, I learn about the world and about myself. And I take a little piece of Home with me wherever I go, to share with the souls I encounter and remind myself who I am…"
Although I had been blogging for a while (on a defunct LiveJournal account that has been mercifully buried in the annals of time), I had decided to start a new platform centered around my travels. Here was a place to share my travel stories and photos as I hit the peak of my solo-adventuring life. My first series was focused on my Epic Trip Out West, during which I spent only $10 a day. In between volunteering as a tutor and babysitter, visiting distant relatives, riding with strangers, and couchsurfing for the first time, I found moments of calm and wi-fi to write down journal entries in this space I had cultivated for myself.
But I'll make a confession: I began The Traveling Mandolin because I wanted someone to listen to me.
My Epic Trip Out West was my fifth big solo trip (and, at two months, the longest one to date), and by this point, I had noticed a pattern: I had a really hard time conveying to friends and family back home how a trip was affecting me. It would never fail: I'd go on some life-changing adventure, feel like everything was different now, be bursting with stories to tell… and then I'd come home, and people would ask, "How was your trip?" and if my answer went on longer than a sentence, their eyes would glaze over.
There were notable exceptions, of course, including my family and closest friends, but even then I couldn't ever quite convey why the trip had been so important, what had happened, how it had left its mark on me. I always felt frustrated and empty after a solo excursion, feeling the memories fade away as if they'd taken place in an alternate universe.
And so, after literal years of this, I finally decided to write.
Because when you're writing, no one is forced to listen.
No one is socially obligated to stand there and nod and listen to you ramble.
Writing is an invitation to the readers, but only those who truly want to listen need to read.
And read they did. People that I barely talked to in real life read every word that I wrote, sent me encouraging messages, made mention of things I had buried in massive rambling posts. It gave me an audience for my inner transformation, a way to process the immense shift that every trip brought about in me. With each trip, this grew more important— and I soon found that I wasn't able to truly process a trip until I had blogged about it.
Over the years, I've had people say to me in an ashamed voice, "I'm sorry, I don't read your blog." And I can honestly say that I'm 100% okay with that. Reading my blog isn't a litmus test for friendship. Instead, my blog is my expression of my deep and ongoing need to be listened to. And not just listened to, but listened to by people who genuinely want to. No obligation. Free choice. That is the format that gives me boldness to express my heart, no matter what I'm going through.
Ten years still feels like a long time to me, and in those years my life and my self have changed a lot. I no longer travel as frequently (although in a post-Covid world this is likely to change) and live a pretty settled life. My perspectives, politics, and theology have radically transformed. I struggle with anxiety and depression more than I used to, and have gotten a bit better at writing poetry. But despite all the inner and outer changes, this blog still serves the same function: a place for people to come and listen to whatever the heck is on my mind.
So, a huge thank you to you, my reader, one of the people bearing witness to the parts of my life that I can express through writing.
Thank you to you, my listener. You have been part of my joy and trauma, my everyday life and my high points, and part of the healing that comes from telling the truth in as much detail as I need to.
Thank you for being along for the ride.
Love,
Lisa
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